HECATE.Have I not reason, beldams as you are,Saucy and overbold? How did you dareTo trade and traffic with MacbethIn riddles and affairs of death;And I, the mistress of your charms,The close contriver of all harms,Was never call'd to bear my part,Or show the glory of our art?And, which is worse, all you have doneHath been but for a wayward son,Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do,Loves for his own ends, not for you.But make amends now: get you gone,And at the pit of AcheronMeet me i' the morning: thither heWill come to know his destiny.Your vessels and your spells provide,Your charms, and everything beside.I am for the air; this night I'll spendUnto a dismal and a fatal end.Great business must be wrought ere noon:Upon the corner of the moonThere hangs a vaporous drop profound;I'll catch it ere it come to ground:And that, distill'd by magic sleights,Shall raise such artificial sprites,As, by the strength of their illusion,Shall draw him on to his confusion:He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bearHis hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear:And you all know, securityIs mortals' chiefest enemy.

[Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.]

Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me.